


Breathe

by Siivin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-08
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-10-06 11:04:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17344148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siivin/pseuds/Siivin
Summary: He knew what happened after The Unknowing, knew that his body had been similarly unresponsive while it healed from an explosion that most certainly should have killed him. But he’d been hoping it had been a, a fluke, or something about the ritual itself that had caused it. He’d been hoping it wasn’t him. He didn’t want this to be him.





	Breathe

Maybe it was just the ridiculousness of the situation that got to him. In the past year Jon had been threatened, assaulted, kidnapped, and stabbed by the manifestations of ancient eldritch horrors beyond human comprehension on a fairly regular basis. The idea that he should be afraid of some gangly teenager brandishing a knife in shaking hands was quite literally laughable.

On the other hand, maybe he was just an idiot, because laughing hollowly at a would-be mugger before trying to push past them was still a pretty good way to end up with a knife buried in your stomach.

For a moment he’s not sure who’s more surprised, him or the mugger. Jon is pretty sure he should be panicking – pretty sure he will be, in a moment – but at this exact second the only thing he can think is an inane  _this is the absolute stupidest way I could die_. Then the kid steps backwards, wrenching the knife out as he does, and Jon hisses in pain as his hands go instinctively to staunch the blood.

Except, there’s not any. Instead of the crimson tide he was expecting, there’s barely a trickle of blood sluggishly staining his shirt. It definitely hurts like hell, but Jon is unfortunately well-acquainted with how much stab wounds should bleed and this is not it.

“What the hell?” the mugger asks, glancing around nervously as though this all might be some kind of prank. He holds the knife up between himself and Jon, shaking more pronounced now.

Jon moves to put his hands up in a conciliatory gesture, which proves to be a mistake as it startles the mugger. This time the knife buries itself up to the hilt in his chest, and this time the mugger does not hang around after withdrawing it, just casts Jon a nervous glance as he flees. Jon tries to say something – what, he’s not exactly sure, he doesn’t exactly know what you’re supposed to say to the person who just stabbed you, but it’s a moot point since his lungs don’t seem to be cooperating anyway.

Actually, his lungs just . . . aren’t working. At all. He’s not breathing, and he hasn’t been for a minute now, and aside from the sharp, slicing pain of the stab wounds he feels fine. And then, with a creeping mix of horror and resignation, he realizes that neither wound is bleeding because his heart is no longer pumping.

It shouldn’t be surprising, he supposes. He knew what happened after The Unknowing, knew that his body had been similarly unresponsive while it healed from an explosion that most certainly should have killed him. But he’d been hoping it had been a, a fluke, or something about the ritual itself that had caused it. He’d been hoping it wasn’t him. He didn’t want this to be  _him_.

If he focuses he can draw a breath in, but it causes an unpleasant sucking sensation in his chest where the knife entered so he doesn’t bother as he makes his way back to his flat. It’s late and cold and there aren’t many people out on the streets, and it’s dark enough that no one seems to notice the blood on his shirt, but he walks quickly with his head down, not making eye contact with the few people still out and about at this hour.

He gets back to his flat and changes out of his ruined shirt. He notes with a sort of detached annoyance that he’s been going through them quite quickly of late, he’ll need to go shopping again soon. He pokes experimentally at his wounds, which have stopped bleeding entirely and seem to be closing up already. At least they won’t take so long to heal as the explosion did, he thinks, although they’ll definitely add another couple scars to his already impressive collection.

He cleans them as best he can, though he suspects it’s not really necessary, and then makes himself a cup of coffee despite the fact that it’s going on eleven. He can’t deal with the nightmares tonight. Instead, he resigns himself to another long and sleepless night. It doesn’t matter anyway. He’s never slept as much as he probably should have, but lately he hardly seems to need to at all. One more item on a list that is becoming harder and harder to ignore.

He knows he’s not exactly human anymore, in the way Jude and Mike and Agnes weren’t exactly human. And he knows unless he somehow finds a way to free himself his humanity will keep draining away imperceptibly. A little less human, a little less  _him_  day by day until he’s just another monster stalking the night. Everything that makes him Jon will be consumed by the Archivist, until the very concept of his existence is nothing more than a faint memory in the back of the Archivist’s mind, no trace of who he was but a few recorded statements buried deep in the Archives.

He settles into a chair with the coffee steaming before him and a dead, absolute silence descends on the flat. Not even the sound of breathing disturbs the stillness, not even the steady thumping of his heart grounds him. And he wonders, just for a moment, if he would have been better off bleeding out in that cold, dark alley.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to get back into writing, constructive criticism is welcome!


End file.
